


Moonbeam

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 18:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11041593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: A stray star stumbles into Elrond’s cottage in the woods.





	Moonbeam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistressOfLions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfLions/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for the-puppets-mistress’ “3. “Stay with me” Elrondir” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list). Inspired by [Moonbeam – Stay With Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xDwEpot_h-0).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s a hot summer day, with the sun streaming in through the tall stalks of silver trees. Elrond pauses mid-swing of the axe. He can feel his grip loosening with sweat and stills it. He rests the axe down against the stump he’s been chopping on and lifts his other arm to wipe across his tired forehead. He’s drawn a few strands of dark hair back from his eyes, but perhaps he should’ve tied the rest up. It isn’t quite sweltering, but the exertion’s getting to him. He’s getting too old for this.

For a moment, he misses his children. Elladan and Elrohir would’ve made short work of the firewood, and Arwen would have tea waiting for him when he finished. But they’re grown now, off taking care of their own homes, their owl lives, and he’s moved far away. He wanted peace and solitude. It’s lonely, sometimes, but he knows he can’t have it both ways. For the most part, his quiet life is a good one. He lifts the axe again, sturdy in both hands. 

It swings down and slices the smaller log in two. The clean halves totter to either side, crunching against the grass around the base of his cottage. Elrond bends to chuck them towards the growing pile, and as he straightens, a single bead of water hits him squarely on the nose.

He glances up in time to close his eyes against the next spill of rain. A light drizzle begins all around him, blown down from lightly swirling clouds. Elrond looks to his pile, knowing he’d best get it inside. If he’s going to be lonely, he can at least keep himself warm. But he thinks he has enough to last a while. At least until the rain stops and he can come collect some more. He retires the axe against the side of his porch and gathers up his bundle.

* * *

The flames lick up to a healthy red/orange, yellow at their tips as they lap around the logs. Elrond stokes them absently, mostly just for an excuse to remain by the fire. He has candles lit about the living room, but they’re more for light—the rain makes windows unreliable and squelches the early heat. Through them, the once blue-sky is now a flickering grey, all thoughts of sun extinguished. He doesn’t look to them again until he hears a sudden clap outside, then the telltale racket of many leaves and sticks being blown clear aside.

At the first cry of someone’s voice, Elrond pushes to his feet. He hurries to the front door, wrenches it open, and steps out onto the porch, where the noise is crisp and loud, coming ever closer. He thinks, for a moment, of grabbing for the axe. Caution is a virtue, but he holds himself back—part of the reason for moving out here was to be free of the reminders of the war. He won’t fight unless he has to. 

It isn’t a large party that finally bursts through the trees, nor a few straggling soldiers or any kind of beast. A single man emerges over the underbrush. He wears a plain, white dress that billows back from his legs in his frantic scramble. His long, dark hair flows out behind him, straight and shining with rain but tangled and matted from the forest. His handsome face is soft, youthful, ageless and artful, but now drawn with fright. His shimmering eyes are wide, mouth open in a harried wail. His slender limbs are long but bruised, his silken garment torn and splattered in specks of crimson blood. His pale skin almost seems to glow but dulls around his injuries, like a star that someone’s tried to forcibly extinguish. Elrond finds himself running down the steps. 

At the bottom, the being barrels right into his arms. Elrond allows the contact, allows the stranger to embrace him tightly, to burrow into him, to duck into his shoulder and cling to his middle, trembling hard against him. With his chin tucked over sloping shoulders, he can see that the creature’s ears are elegantly pointed like an elf’s, but Elrond inexplicably knows that this is no such thing. He knew it on first glance, and now he can _feel_ it. 

A warg howls in the distance. Elrond’s blood runs cold, but he feels no fear for himself. Only worry for what this fair being’s been through. The creature winces terribly and cowers into him, whimpering fearfully. Elrond wraps a protective arm around the being’s slender shoulders. When he tries to step back, the being seems too broken to follow.

Because it’s pouring rain and a warg is on the prowl, Elrond opts for speed and safety over manners. He ducks to catch below the creature’s knees, and he scoops the light body up into his arms. The being lets out a little sigh that sounds close to relief and lets Elrond carry it inside.

* * *

The not-quite-an-elf sits on a rug by the fire, propped on folded knees, where Elrond first set it down. It proved wondrously weightless, like trying to grip a feather, and warm as glowing embers in Elrond’s hands, though the extra heat of the fire still seems welcome to it. Safely inside the fire-lit cottage, the creature almost shines more than the hearth does. It’s dazzlingly beautiful to look at.

While the creature watches the dancing flames with full, new eyes, Elrond fishes his medicine basket out of the closet. It’s hard to look away, but his healing instincts kick in, and he knows he needs to help. Fortunately, he keeps certain amenities ready—there’ll be no one else to aid him if he takes a fall out here. He wets a rag in the sink first, knowing he’ll need to clean the wounds before he tends them. When he brings the basket over to set on the ground, the being looks sharply around at him, eyes growing wider, full of innocence and marvel. Elrond wonders if the creature speaks any Sindarin.

It’s a spirit, he thinks, some kind of guardian of the forest, or perhaps even a fallen Maia. He’s heard of such things, if never met one. But the blood is corporeal. If it is a Maia, or was, it’s committed itself to Elven form, and it’s faced the consequences. Elrond hopes whatever powers it has, it’s remained untouched by pain. It sits as though it feels none, gracefully and prettily.

Hesitant to intrude on such otherworldly qualities with mortal touch, Elrond hovers his hand over the hem of the creature’s dress. It’s made of silken fabric, so thin it’s almost sheer, and the being seems to have no other clothing. No socks, no shoes. Perhaps no undergarments, for no seam lines show through, but Elrond tries not to think of that, no matter how enticing this being is. That hem rests along the creature’s calves, and Elrond asks, “May I?” Even though he knows it likely won’t understand.

It looks up at the question. It tilts its pretty head, then slowly nods. Hoping they’ve read one another correctly, Elrond dons a reassuring smile and begins to lift the dress.

He only pushes it past the creature’s knees. Fortunately, there are no tears in the material along the torso, so there shouldn’t be any need to be inappropriate. Or more so than he already has been, and not only in his thoughts. It would seem a sin even to interfere with the designs of a Maia, but then, he reminds himself, this one ran right into his arms; he can’t be blamed. He can’t be expected to understand all the ancient magic of Middle Earth, only to help where he can. He takes the damp cloth out of the basket and draws it along the creature’s leg, cleaning the wound. 

The being mewls at the soft touch but does no more. It’s quiet, still, as Elrond reveals a thin, long cut, fortunately shallow, beneath the red smears. The more he cleans the blood away, the more ethereal the skin becomes, though Elrond couldn’t fully explain _how_ if asked, only that it _is_ , like flesh so new it’s only just bloomed, though this creature looks older than his children. It’s more than just the iridescent brightness. Elrond knows there are still things in Middle Earth beyond mortal years and further past his understanding. Elrond cleans both legs with care, and the creature shifts obligingly for him each time.

When that’s done, Elrond plucks out a bottle of athelas extract and pours a small pool into his palm. Catching the creature’s eyes again, he presses the cool liquid tenderly against the cut. The being lets out a relieved sigh as Elrond rubs over it. The athelas will clean, soothe, and heal like no other treatment. He grows what he can, and he always keeps a draft ready, though he’s had no occasion to use it before now. He’s glad he kept it up. 

Eventually, both legs are lathered, the blood already stopped, nowhere needing binding, though Elrond still considers it. Either the creature heals remarkably fast, or the blood was only cumulative from so many tiny things, already clogged and mending before reaching Elrond’s care. Elrond doesn’t question it, only straightens out again to slowly take the creature’s arm in his hands. 

As he rolls up one tattered sleeve, the creature asks, “You are... healer?” Elrond looks up immediately. The voice is strange, garbled, lilting like song but unfamiliar to the language. Highly enchanting. Elrond can’t help a pleased smile.

“I am a healer, yes,” he answers, though it’s been some time since anyone else called him that. Thankfully, there isn’t much need of healing out here. This creature is his first patient in decades. The arm he treats feels little different than the soldiers’ of long ago, only as light as if it held no bones, slender and delicate like porcelain. As he rubs the cloth over it, he holds the creature’s eyes and asks, “May I ask what you are?”

“Lindir,” it replies, or he, perhaps. The name certainly _sounds_ Elven, and he thinks male, although this is all guesswork, and he’ll switch if another explanation comes. It doesn’t. ‘Lindir’ lifts his free hand to point a pale finger at Elrond’s chest and asks, “You...?”

That confirms, at least, that ‘Lindir’ is a name, and the being understands the difference between a name and a title, ‘healer’ and something else. Elrond announces, “Elrond.”

“El... _rond_ ,” Lindir repeats. The name’s never sounded so eloquent, for all the strangeness of the syllables. Then Lindir drawls a fuller, “Elrond.” He sounds fond already, pleasant, and whispers beneath his breath again, “ _Elrond_.”

Elrond doesn’t know whether to chuckle or blush. He gives an encouraging smile and finishes with his work on the one arm. Then he reaches for the next, only for a sudden clap of thunder to boom outside the window. Lindir cries out instantly, jerking free of Elrond’s grasp and flinging into Elrond’s lap instead. In a heartbeat, his luscious thighs are parted around Elrond’s body, his plush rear seated on Elrond’s crotch, his arms looped around Elrond’s neck. He cocoons completely around Elrond, face ducking into the crux of Elrond’s neck, quivering against Elrond’s broader frame while the lightening flashes through the room. The rain is now a pounding roar. 

Elrond doesn’t know what to do. Even his children were never so terrified of thunder, even when they were tiny little things too young to understand. So he just moves on instinct. Elrond lifts a hand to pat Lindir’s back, and when Lindir doesn’t still, he rubs a circle across it, trying to soothe the worry away. He murmurs into Lindir’s fine tipped ear, “It’s okay.”

Lindir either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t understand him, or perhaps it just isn’t enough. Lindir continues to tremble as the storm continues to rage, and Elrond continues to try and comfort him. For a long time, Elrond holds him, until the fire needs more wood, and Lindir can stand to be released long enough to give it kindling.

* * *

With bread rising in the oven, Elrond sets to washing the blood out of Lindir’s dress. His own sleeves rolled halfway up his arms, he soaks it down in a wide basin in the kitchen. It’s likely beyond saving, but he does his best to scrub away the stains nonetheless. When he’s finally given up on the torn neckline, Lindir wanders down the hall from his bedroom.

He’d left a tunic and trousers for Lindir to change into, but he supposes it isn’t so surprising that Lindir’s only donned the tunic. It’s not all that longer than his dress was on him, though the slits on either side cut far up his creamy thighs. The fabric is thicker but drapes looser across his shoulders, slipping down one when he comes to a halt in the kitchen. With perfect posture and his newly brushed hair twisted over one shoulder, he looks utterly perfect, even in Elrond’s bland, oversized clothes. His arms hang dully at his sides, his complexion dancing in the shadows of the rain. Elrond has to make a concerted effort not to stare.

Though Lindir has the sort of hair that looks perfect to run one’s hands through, and his exaggerated eyes are easy to get lost in, and the lone peak at one tantalizing shoulder is horribly tempting, it’s Lindir’s legs that Elrond has to force his gaze away from. Lindir’s legs are long and lean, thoroughly enticing. Elrond tries not to make an issue of the lack of bottoms; a spirit will dress as they will. It helps when Lindir’s pink lips lift into a shy smile, drawing Elrond to the movement. Lindir crosses one arm over his chest, plucking at the three-quarter-length sleeve, and bites his bottom lip. There’s something all the more stirring about seeing such a gorgeous creature in _his_ clothes. Though it’s shapeless and weathered, Elrond can’t help but think Lindir looks best in it. Elrond realizes belatedly that he’s stopped scrubbing. Lindir makes for quite the distraction.

Lindir says nothing, then looks aimlessly aside and wanders across the pantry. He reaches a shelf beyond the kitchen counter and absently runs his fingers over the mahogany finish. He eyes the books along the middle, then pulls one out, flipping it open, and scans it as though trying to recall the words. 

Then thunder claps, and Lindir drops the book, his whole body going rigid. Before Elrond can react, Lindir mutters, “Sorry, sorry!” He swiftly bends to pluck the book up again, stuff it back into the shelf, and all but run over to Elrond. Pausing just in front of him, Lindir wraps his arms tentatively around Elrond’s middle, and Elrond nods to indicate that it’s okay. 

The next clap has Lindir wincing. He presses his face into Elrond’s shoulder, hugging tighter. Elrond’s breath catches, but he forces himself to look away and concentrate on fixing Lindir’s dress. Hyper aware of the torrent battering against his windows, Elrond says over the clamour, “I’ll throw this over a chair tonight, but we should be able to hang it outside tomorrow when the rain’s finished.” He may as well be speaking to himself; Lindir has no reaction. 

Lindir just clings to him, silent but oddly comforting. Lindir mostly keeps his eyes on the floor or in the distance, never at the window. Elrond finds himself thinking Lindir’s unbearably adorable, though he feels guilty right after for taking any sort of aesthetic pleasure in such a sweet creature’s fears. 

He works twice as hard at clearing the blood away to make up for it, vowing that when the rain does subside enough to let Lindir leave, Lindir will do so in perfect shape.

* * *

When the bread’s finished and Elrond’s spread a homemade sauce across it, he serves them in the living room. The wooden coffee table is laden with books and mugs that he clears aside, instead setting down the tray, balancing bread, a bowl, and smaller plates, while Lindir climbs hesitantly onto the sofa. He watches Elrond take a seat next to him, then scoots closer. 

“Let me know if you don’t like it,” Elrond offers, as he takes a slice onto his own plate, coupled with a small helping of garden salad. He passes a plate to Lindir, who curiously watches Elrond take a first bite before moving.

Slowly, Lindir lifts one slice onto his own plate, as though selecting food for the first time, and says sincerely, “Thank you.” He looks at the salad without any comprehension, until Elrond points to the fork resting against the side. Then Lindir touches it, stilling, and Elrond has to reach out and wrap his hand properly around it. Larger fingers closed over Lindir’s silken ones, Elrond guides Lindir through the motion, demonstrating how to properly use a fork. Lindir learns quickly and smiles; when Elrond releases him, he fetches a fair portion of salad on his own. His smile is captivating, as radiant as his skin is smooth and soft. His body is a quiet fire, his eyes full of the heavens. Elrond’s already falling.

Elrond takes another bite in silence. He has many questions he could ask, but Lindir seems too quiet to be pestered, and it seems kinder to let him reveal what he will at his own pace. Elrond gets the distinct impression that this is all very _new_ to him, although the world can’t be. So Elrond just enjoys the calm atmosphere and chews his food. Lindir follows suit.

Every few bites, Lindir pauses. He readjusts his seat each time, shuffling a little closer, first their knees brushing, then Lindir’s legs over his, until, eventually, Lindir’s curling right up against Elrond’s side, with his thighs laid across Elrond’s lap and his head on Elrond’s shoulder. He eats in tiny nibbles, and when he finishes his first piece of bread, he doesn’t fetch another, just sits there with an empty plate and his cheek leant against Elrond’s side. When it’s clear he won’t take anymore, Elrond takes the plate from his little hands and sets it on the coffee table. 

Only a few minutes later, Elrond eats enough to satisfy himself. He sets his own plate down atop Lindir’s, but Lindir lays a hand over his thigh right afterwards, as if to prevent his leaving to take them away. So Elrond remains where he is. 

They sit there, the dishes unattended. At first, Elrond just basks in the company. It’s been a long time since he’s had any, but the quality of this is different than any of his memories. Finally, his shoulders stiffen from lying in the same place too long, and he flexes them, reaching one arm around the back of the couch: around Lindir. Lindir mewls happily and nuzzles into him, wrinkling Elrond’s shirt. Elrond lightly pets Lindir’s hair, somewhere between tired strokes and a massage, occasionally gliding through the long strands, right through to the bottom. All the knots are miraculously gone, and weaving in and out is easy. Touching Lindir is easy. And Lindir is _beautiful_ , beyond any art that Elrond could conceive. 

The rain’s still coming down. If Lindir’s only here because of it, then Elrond vainly hopes it rains forever.

* * *

Finally, Elrond is in danger of dozing off, and he guides Lindir towards his bedroom. Lindir follows obediently, right through the doorway. The space is small, plain, with only a bed and wardrobe, but it’s all Elrond has to offer. He’s never been one to need luxuries, but now he wishes he had them to share. He pats the tall mattress and says, “You can sleep here; I’ll take the couch.”

Lindir just tilts his head, and when Elrond leaves the room, Lindir follows.

So Elrond points back, causing Lindir to look, and repeats, “You can sleep there.” But Lindir only looks confused. 

With a tired sigh, Elrond strolls back through the open door. This time he peels back the emerald covers, patting the white sheets below. There are only two pillows, propped against the wooden headboard, but they’re fluffy enough and should be more inviting than the couch. He gestures down and stresses, “It’s okay. You can take the bed.”

This time, he remains standing there until Lindir whispers, “Okay.” But Lindir still looks concerned.

Elrond is careful when he distances himself. Lindir looks forlornly after him but remains in the bedroom, and Elrond tries to stop looking back. He comes to the long sofa in the living room and is glad the fire’s still going; it alleviates the chill and the steady thrum of rain. As Elrond settles down onto the cushions, pillowing his head against the armrest, he wonders if he’ll be able to sleep at all. He doesn’t bother to change and clear forgets to brush his teeth.

His mind is full. Lindir doesn’t follow him again, but Elrond can _feel_ Lindir in his home, with a sense he can’t put into words. He can faintly smell Lindir’s floral scent lingering about the cushions, something he wouldn’t have been able to articulate earlier, with Lindir right in his arms. The distance only focuses onto the things he misses. When he closes his eyes, he thinks he can hear Lindir’s melodic voice—Lindir might be singing. 

He doesn’t get the chance to get up again and go to check, because he’s quickly asleep.

* * *

There is no sun to wake him. On nights too dark to bother drawing the curtains, that’s usually the culprit, but today, it’s a faint weight over him, only slightly more than a blanket, except Elrond knows it isn’t that. He lets his eyes flutter open to the pale morning glow that filters through the rain. He can still hear it coming, now a dull song always in his peripherals. The roof is alive with it, the windows painted.

And Lindir is atop him. Elrond’s lying on his back, head cricked against the armrest, with Lindir curled up on his chest. Lindir’s face rises and falls with each breath of Elrond’s lungs, both sets of long, dark hair layered into each other along Elrond’s shoulder and what little is left of the couch cushions on either side of his body. Elrond can’t see much beyond Lindir’s swept-aside hair, his bare forehead, and his dark lashes down over his eyes. But Elrond can feel the rest, particularly where Lindir’s legs are bare and draped over his. 

Elrond half thought him a dream. And Elrond’s never had dreams as pleasant as those of last night, and now he thinks he knows why. He lies still for a few moments, ignoring his thirst and the want to brush his teeth, because he doesn’t want to disturb anything so peaceful. 

But soon Lindir stirs on his own, opening his plush mouth to yawn. He nuzzles into Elrond’s chest afterwards, then glances upwards as though just now realizing that he’s fallen asleep on a person instead of furniture. His cheeks flush a brilliant pink, and he pushes slowly up to sit on Elrond’s crotch, thighs spread wide around him. Letting out another yawn, Lindir lifts one hand to paw the sleep from his eyes. He’s almost too cute to be believed. He can’t be real.

He gives Elrond a shy smile, and Elrond teases, “You’re incorrigible.”

Lindir lowers his gaze and murmurs, “I am sorry,” but he doesn’t look like he holds any regrets.

* * *

It’s still raining. At this point, it doesn’t seem like the clouds should have anything left to give, but the waterfall is steady and constant. Elrond stirs a variety of nuts into a granola mix while Lindir tries to squeeze oranges into a glass. It’s almost funny to watch him clench, trying so hard to summon strength that he doesn’t seem to have. Elrond fully intends to help as soon as he’s finished. In the meantime, he guilty watches Lindir grow ever more adorable. 

Then he granola is ready, and Elrond finishes their orange juice in a few short minutes. He sets two glasses of it on the round wooden table, pausing to pull a chair out for Lindir. Lindir settles into it after Elrond takes the other side. There’s bread left from yesterday. Lindir takes a piece in both hands and lifts it to his mouth, comically nibbling into the middle of something far too big for him. Elrond chews a spoonful of granola and tries not watch too intently. 

When Lindir’s finished his slice, he licks his pink tongue along his parted lips, wetting them and inevitably drawing Elrond’s gaze again. He asks quietly, “You are... all alone here?”

Elrond answers, “Yes.” He tries not to frown and doesn’t ask why Lindir wants to know.

Lindir rephrases, “You are alone?”

And Elrond, confused, repeats, “Yes.”

Lindir looks away. He leans back in his chair, slumping down, his hands idly in his lap. He’s still in Elrond’s tunic, and when he slouches so, the sleeves fall past his elbows. He mumbles, “You are very handsome.”

Elrond can feel his cheeks heating. It’s not a normal reaction for him, but he’s not normally paid such compliments. Wholly flattered, he replies, “Thank you.”

There are a million ways he could return the compliment. So many ways that Lindir amazes him. He doesn’t even know where to start, and before he can conjure the right thing, Lindir is climbing out of the chair.

He wanders distractedly around the kitchen. Then he pauses at the cabinets over the sink and wipes a thin layer of dust off the handle and onto his finger. It distills his natural light but can’t completely cover it. 

Lindir finds a rag that’s near the sink and starts scrubbing at all the dust he finds in the kitchen. Bewildered, Elrond lets him, at least until breakfast is over.

* * *

Lindir methodically goes about cleaning the house, one room at a time, first wiping the dust away on a rag, then sweeping the floors, then squaring Elrond’s things into neater rows. When Elrond tries to help, Lindir clutches the broom tight against his chest and says, “No, please... let me do this for you.” 

Elrond gently explains, “It doesn’t all need to be cleaned right now.”

But Lindir bites his bottom lip and repeats, “Please.” So Elrond begrudgingly allows it. As mind numbing as such chores should be, Lindir, at least, seems perfectly content to throw himself into them. And it gives Elrond some time to take care of others things. 

He has a broken shelf in the pantry to fix, indoor plants to water, and a neglected stack of letters to sort through. His path crosses Lindir’s several times, but they seem to work as well apart as they do together. When they do speak, Lindir’s Sindarin seems to be improving. Elrond’s sure he understands everything. But when Elrond tries a word or two in Quenya, Lindir is lost again, and it makes Elrond wonder what he spoke before. What do Maiar speak? What do the Valar?

While Elrond composes a letter to Arwen at his desk, Lindir sorts through his bookshelf and hums. The humming becomes gentle murmuring, then a song, the lyrics stretched long and languid amidst the beat of the rain. Lindir sings of the sky, clear of all clouds, of the grass on a dewy morning, and of hills alive with many trees. The song is as beautiful as everything about him.

Lindir smiles while he works. His body glows bright again, brighter than the fire, almost difficult to look at and yet impossible to look away from. Somehow, Elrond still manages to finish his letter. It’s short, but it covers the important things. He’s happy here. He doesn’t mention Lindir, because there’s no way to explain.

And there’s little hope for it to last. A songbird so sweet simply can’t be caged. Elrond wouldn’t try to.

Elrond won’t let himself feel sorrow over the oncoming loss. He swims through Lindir’s song instead, treasuring the moment while he can.

* * *

In the evening, Elrond stokes the fire. His supply is running low, and he tells the hearth, “I should’ve chopped more wood.” The flames only crackle, and he sighs, “Well, I suppose I couldn’t have anticipated this. It rarely rains so long.”

When he pushes back up to his tired legs, he finds Lindir standing behind him, frowning. Elrond promises, “The rain will end soon,” because it has to. Lindir’s frown doesn’t change. 

A mug of lavender tea sits on the coffee table, wafting small wisps of steam like a beacon that Elrond drifts to. He takes a long sip before he settles onto the couch with it. Lindir turns to him, still standing, and mumbles, “I am sorry.”

Elrond pauses mid-sip to ask, “What?” 

“You should not expend all your fire on me,” Lindir says, almost free of any accent. His eyes are troubled, and his thins arms cross, almost defensively, over his chest. He looks suddenly _small_ , and that gives Elrond a chill that the flames can’t touch. 

He does the only thing he knows how to do: offers out an arm, welcoming Lindir back into his embrace. Lindir instantly moves forward, settling onto the couch. The mug of tea Elrond made for him remains untouched, and Elrond sets his own down next to it. He needs both hands to cup Lindir’s face, and he promises, “You’re more than worth any warmth I can offer.”

Lindir’s frown finally cracks. He averts his eyes, cheeks blushing, and seems to take a minute to live inside those words. Then he shuffles closer still, turning to nuzzle his face into Elrond’s shoulder. His bare legs tangle with Elrond’s, climbing half over his lap, tentative hands resting on his sides. Elrond keeps one arm loose around the small of Lindir’s back. 

He needs to find trousers that’ll fit Lindir. If only for this one night, before the rain is gone and Lindir can leave without fear of thunder. It’s dangerous to have Lindir like this, clad only in a single garment, legs thrown open around him and shirt riding up flushed thighs. Elrond tries hard not to look between them, not to stare or even wonder. But it’s impossible. Lindir smells like a lavish garden, a bouquet plucked just for him. Lindir’s warm breath ghosts along his neck. In a tiny, shy voice, Lindir asks, “Do you... like me?”

Though he’s a little startled by the question, Elrond has no trouble answering, “Of course.” 

He looks down at Lindir’s lovely face, but Lindir’s eyes are far away again, seeing something Elrond isn’t privy too. Lindir murmurs, “I like you very much.”

Elrond’s chest clenches. Lindir’s thick lashes fall across his eyes, his lips almost puckering, parting, breath quickened. There’s a thin note of a near moan in his voice as he sighs, “You stir... earthly... feelings in me. Ones I don’t fully understand. But I... want to explore them.” Eyes fluttering open again, Lindir lifts his head carefully off Elrond’s shoulder. He gracefully shifts his weight, slowly coming to sit in Elrond’s lap, knees to either side and hands landing on his shoulders, back straight. Lindir’s gaze traces the lines of Elrond’s face. He licks his supple lips and tries to explain, “This new body is... strange. But the longing under it is old: all my senses are. In some ways, they are not as strong as before, just... focused. The beauty I know with them is vivid. You are... you are the most poignant to me...” He lowers, face hovering just before Elrond’s, and his eyes fall to Elrond’s lips, though he doesn’t seem to know what to do beyond that. He asks in a whisper, “How do I express this?”

Elrond, perhaps, could devise some form of explanation. He’s seen many centuries, read many books, even fallen both in and out of love. But in this moment, it’s so much easier to simply tilt his head and bring their mouths together. He presses gently into Lindir’s lips, his eyes falling closed, and Lindir releases a hitched gasp, then swiftly returns it.

They share a chaste, tender moment. Lindir doesn’t pull away from him, but begins to press closer, hands running from Elrond’s shoulders back into his hair, arms locking around him, while he holds Lindir’s waist tighter, and Lindir’s chest slopes flat against him. A single stutter of Lindir’s hips has Elrond grinding them once together, then a second time, until Lindir seems to understand and moves in tandem with him, following the same gradual rhythm. Elrond’s tongue pushes out to lick at Lindir’s lips, and Lindir parts for him. Elrond slips inside, which makes Lindir shiver and moan.

One kiss becomes another, and soon they’re opening and closing, exchanging tongues and tracing teeth, feeling about, mapping one another out as completely as possible. Warm, wet, and wondrously soft, Lindir is a fabulous kisser despite all his inexperience. He subserviently follows Elrond’s lead and whines when Elrond tries to part them, only for air. But finally they do manage to separate, and Lindir’s hips still. His face is awash in plain arousal, a gorgeous thing to behold, though he only ducks it to borrow into Elrond’s shoulder again. Elrond pats his back and tries to cool down.

Then Lindir looks up again, and Elrond readies to renew the kiss.

Just short of it, Lindir breaks into a sudden yawn. He looks surprised a second later, eyes cutely wide, but Elrond just chuckles fondly. He gives Lindir only a short peck and decides, “Perhaps we should rest.” Lindir sheepishly nods. 

Lindir withdraws to take Elrond’s hand. He holds onto it as Elrond rises from the couch, tugging Lindir off and towards the bedroom. Lindir’s steps become more sluggish with every one, and near the end, he resists stepping through the doorway.

Elrond gives him a sharp tug, pulling him in, and he lunges into Elrond’s arms again, insisting, “Please stay with me this time.”

If resisting will only end with them both crammed onto the couch, there doesn’t seem much point. So Elrond agrees with a nod. He peels back the covers, meaning to tuck Lindir in before going to do a few short chores, but Lindir hops onto the mattress and pulls Elrond with him. Elrond finds he can’t refuse. He climbs into the bed alongside Lindir, kicking below the sheets, while Lindir dutifully pulls the blankets over them.

The bedroom is already dark, save for what little starlight makes it through the rain. By now, the steady pitter-patter is a familiar hum in the background. It seems to have no intention of stopping. Elrond hopes it never does. 

He’s never felt so serene.

Both of them lying on their sides, facing in, Lindir snuggles into Elrond. They create a shared dip in the mattress, just between the two pillows. Lindir is asleep in minutes, and he seems to pull Elrond into better dreams.

* * *

Elrond wakes alone.

Or, at least, the bed is otherwise empty. It’s only spitting outside, the sun now bright again. He stretches out while he looks for his partner, stifling a yawn, and then the door pushes ajar, and Lindir slips inside with a stack of folded clothes.

Lindir tucks them into one of the drawers. He’s still wearing only Elrond’s tunic. It occurs to Elrond that they should both bathe, though Lindir smells as fresh as ever.

Lindir sends Elrond a sad smile as he straightens again, and Elrond asks sleepily, “What are you doing?”

“Laundry,” Lindir tells him, though Elrond never taught him how. “I mended the hole in your jacket by the door, and I’ve watered the plants. I made you another loaf of bread. Your shoes have been cleaned and sit on the porch, the dishes are washed, and I have some water boiling for your tea.”

Elrond frowns. Mostly because Lindir looks strangely fragile, and a little out of guilt that this fair creature has already done so much for him. He says sincerely, “Thank you.”

He means to say more. That Lindir needn’t do so much, that it’s impressive how quickly Lindir’s learned, but he’s robbed of the chance when Lindir comes to the side of the bed and bends down to kiss him. 

Elrond’s sure he has morning breath. But he doubts that’s why Lindir looks so crestfallen as he pulls back again. He glances at the window, and Elrond follows his gaze.

It isn’t raining anymore.

* * *

Elrond follows Lindir onto the porch, neglecting his tea and the fresh smell of bread. The porch has faired well despite the weather, only sporting a few stray leaves here and there and a thin sheen of water. He wishes he could sweep it quickly and then have Lindir sit on the bench with him, perhaps in his lap, and listen to a nice book. It would be nice to hold Lindir here and watch the stars.

But Lindir trails slowly down the steps. His normally immaculate posture is a mess, his head hung. Elrond tries to feel otherwise. He thinks he should be happy that Lindir is free again, able to return to his forest, or where ever it is he calls home. Lindir doesn’t look happy in the slightest.

Lindir reaches the grass at the bottom. His feet depress the dewy greenery, Elrond’s white tunic washed all the more stark for all the vibrant colours. Lindir didn’t even take the time to change into his dress. But Elrond hasn’t gotten a chance to properly dry it yet. He’ll leave it out, he thinks, so that Lindir can come and collect it whenever he so chooses. 

He hopes Lindir returns for other things.

Lindir takes that first step towards the forest.

And something bursts in Elrond’s chest, though he tries to hold it back—he _can’t_ —he opens his mouth and calls, “ _Lindir._ ”

Lindir pauses. He looks hesitantly over his shoulder, big eyes watery but hopeful. Elrond breathes, “Stay with me.”

There’s a moment where nothing moves, not even the wind, and even the birds are silent for them. They look across the open air to one another, the sun illuminating everything, and suddenly, Lindir seems to catch in it—his silhouette burns brilliant as a crystal scattering a rainbow. His beautiful face lights in a wondrous smile, and he turns, opening his arms.

He practically flies up the steps. His arms are wings that he wraps tightly around Elrond’s body, while Elrond holds him back, pulling Lindir into him. He meant to add _at least a little longer_ , or some other qualifier that didn’t mean _forever_. But it seems he doesn’t need to.

Lindir sings against his chest, “Yes, yes please. I will be good. I will cook and clean and make sure you always have enough wood for when it rains.”

Elrond chuckles, “I don’t think you can be anything but good.”

He kisses Lindir’s glowing forehead, and he guides Lindir back inside.


End file.
